


Courtship

by second_skin



Series: Bespoke (Mycroft/Sally) [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Courtship, Developing Relationship, F/M, Phone Sex, Romance, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Yes, it's weird. But isn't every relationship? He's not like anyone else--and against all good sense, she likes him. She also likes herself when she's with him.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship

Of course, Sally had known spending time with Mycroft Holmes would be weird. Like, John Steed meets Torchwood, with a little Downton Abbey in the mix. He had a bloody chauffeur, Edwardian manners, and _a gold pocket watch,_ for God's sake.

What she hadn't realized--until she was right in the middle of it--was that it would be really good too. Spending time with him was more fun, more normal than any of her failed hookups with married men, narcissists, alcoholics, and insecure prats. Who would've believed it?

The umbrella fetish and silk pocket squares weren't that unusual for a dapper Englishman, she supposed. Although she suspected there was a button somewhere on that brolly that detonated weapons of mass destruction. And the fact that he always insisted that she order dessert and then just stared at her while she ate it--well, okay, that went in the _weird_ column.

He stared at her while she was doing other things too--and she liked that just fine. Most of the man's oddities, she'd decided, were pretty charming--not as Freakish as she'd thought when they first secretly started going out.

After two weeks of dinners, Sally admitted to herself and--reluctantly--to Lestrade, that she was actually dating Mycroft Holmes. To his credit, Lestrade didn't laugh in her face. He just went a little pale, and muttered, "Good luck with that."

 

Their first, second, and third dinners were spent--surprisingly--laughing a lot. Back and forth--one story after another---each of them trying to top the other.

The time Sherlock--age seven--dissected Aunt Harriet's pet goldfish and was sent to his room on bread and water rations for two days.

The time Freak got himself locked in the walk-in freezer of an ice cream shop. "Experiment, my arse," giggled Sally. "He made a _mistake_ and rushed in before he knew the door wouldn't unlock from the inside." That was the first time he really _did_ need a shock blanket. First time she and the boys had got some good photos for the Yard's _Sherlock Wall of Shame._ (Copyright, Sally Donovan, 2007.)

The time Sherlock--age ten--booked himself, under an assumed name with his tutor's credit card, a flight to Lisbon. He'd read about a spectacular kidnapping there and thought he could solve it. Mycroft had to collect him at the airport security desk--a skinny, grey-eyed little boy in a tearful rage. He had worked himself into such a state that he'd vomited all over the baggage carousel. Mycroft hadn't laughed at the time, of course, but now in the retelling . . .

The Halloween prank Sally and Molly had pulled--the one where they had Anderson naked, in full corpse makeup, on a slab in the morgue--and watched the gleeful look on Sherlock's face when Molly tugged off the sheet--and then how furious he'd been when Anderson sat up and hugged him! Sally'd actually seen the veins on his neck ready to burst. All good fun.

After the Sherlock stories, each time they were out together, Sally'd tried to tease a bit of sleazy gossip about the Royals out of Mycroft, but he always just frowned and changed the subject. _Hmpf._ She'd wheedle something out of him _eventually,_ she thought.

So, yeah . . . that was all pretty normal date stuff, wasn't it? Normal for a cop and a Holmes anyway. They'd eventually moved on from Sherlock as their main topic of conversation and done politics, religion, and crap tv. The food was always rich and the wine was always expensive. Riding around London in that big black car--that was a brilliant way to spend an evening in itself.

 

But then, of course, she reminded herself, there were the other things. The weird half of this relationship. Things they didn't talk about. Not that she didn't like those things too--it was just--well, maybe she liked them too much. And if they talked about them . . . maybe they'd stop. And although she tried not to dwell on this bit because that would mean she was in too deep already: She really didn't want _any of it_ to stop. He'd seduced her completely. Or she'd seduced him.

 

* * * *

 

He didn't have to drop more than a few hints on their first date for her to figure out that there was some sort of camera trained on her bedroom window. And the man was sometimes as subtle as a car crash, really, so she'd known from the start that he was a watcher, a voyeur. When she got home from that very first dinner, she immediately positioned a chair two feet from the window, and pulled back the curtains just so. That first night, the only thing she did was take off her dressing gown and leave it on the chair before climbing into bed and turning off the light.

Now, though--every night was slightly different, and she found she liked being a performer. Once she'd walked around her flat all night wearing nothing but the suede boots. He'd sent her a handwritten note the next day telling her she looked beautiful. She could practically hear his cock jump the next time they met for dinner.

Sometimes after he dropped her off--always with a chaste kiss on the hand- she'd go straight up to her flat, turn on some music, and do a burlesque strip tease, complete with the silk gloves he'd sent her from Shanghai. Eventually, she'd be straddling the chair completely naked, looking straight across the street where she thought the camera was positioned. Feeling powerful. Waiting for him to call. And he always called.

There would be a few minutes of silence--just soft breathing. He'd say her name. He'd come quickly and quietly, with barely a gasp or grunt. It was as though he was trying to rein in his body, not let pleasure take hold of him completely. At first, she'd hang up before climbing into her bed or a hot bath and giving herself the same kind of pleasure, but making sure it lasted much longer.

Then one night she didn't hang up. Neither did he. She held the phone in one hand and found her clit with the other. She let him hear her moan and pant, cursing and whispering his name.

After their twelfth evening together, instead of just listening and moaning when he called, she started talking.

She discovered she could talk dirty to him for hours--no matter where he was--and she loved it. She liked the idea that sometimes they were phone-fucking over multiple latitudes and time zones.

She said things to this man she'd never said to anyone before--a few things she'd never even thought she wanted to say. It was so easy when he just whispered questions to keep her going: What do you want to do to me? How deep? How tight? Where would you like me to touch you? How does it feel now?

 _It feels brilliant._ _As if you don't already know all the answers, Mycroft._

She loved that he was getting off on everything she said. She loved the slick warm clenching around her fingers as she tried to keep herself balanced on the delicate, fluttering edge between _wait, wait, wait_ and _yes, yes, yes_ , until she thought he was close too.

She listened to his breathing getting faster, knew that when the breathing stopped, his muscles were tensing, and then he was spilling hot and thick into his fist. All because of her.

She had all the power.

 

After a couple of months, she'd actually lost count of how many times she'd ended the night damp with sweat, hair matted to her neck and forehead, muscles shredded and weak after denying herself until she couldn't resist any longer and her orgasm hit her like a bloody freight train-knocking all the oxygen out of her lungs, liquifying every bone in her body--or so it seemed for a minute or two.

And then there was just silence on the other end of the line, and a click.

Finally, she decided she couldn't stand it anymore. One chilly winter night, she dragged herself to the window afterward and pressed her naked body against the glass. She imagined his warm lips on her cold, hard nipples.

He didn't like texts.

So she texted him.

As her fingers hit the keys, she was still thinking: _No. Bad idea. We shouldn't really touch each other. We've got to keep our distance. We don't make any sense except in this strange, disembodied way. Maybe we'll ruin it if it gets too real.  
_

  
 _Where are you?_

 

_Confidential._

 

_I want you to come to my flat._

_  
_

_Is something wrong?_

 

_I want to sleep with you tonight._

 

There was a pause of ten minutes before he answered. She'd expected that.

_  
_

_Why?_

_  
_

_I don't have to explain myself to you._

 

_No. You don't. But I'd like to know why._

 

_I want you to sleep with me and then fuck me in the morning. For real this time._

_  
_

_Such a gracious, elegant invitation._

_  
_

_You're such a prick. Don't be sarcastic, just answer me._

 

There was another pause. This time, fifteen minutes. She put on the kettle.

 

_I'll be there shortly, Sergeant. Will you be wearing boots?_

 

_If you're lucky._

_  
_

She felt a tickle---like a dozen caterpillars dancing up her spine. She loved it when he called her _Sergeant._

 

 


End file.
